


Fate

by WallabyKangerooAmbiguous



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Drug Mentions, M/M, withdrawals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallabyKangerooAmbiguous/pseuds/WallabyKangerooAmbiguous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Mark held Roger and whispered that everything would be okay, and as Roger shook and cried into Mark’s chest and clutched at Mark’s loose-fitting pajama shirt, the universe decided.</p><p>Mark loved Roger. And Roger loved Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so, I had this idea earlier this morning and couldn't wait to write it. I'm absolutely in love with it, and I think it's one of the things that I've written that I'm actually super proud of. Just to forewarn you, this isn't beta read, so any mistakes are my own. There are mentions of drug abuse and I'm not really sure if that should be a warning or not, so... yeah.

It was fate that they met. Like a bad cosmic joke. Or a really good cosmic matchup.

 

Roger, with his dirty blonde hair and his piercing eyes and his guitar and his constant need to write and play, his thirst for music and inspiration. His resorting back to Musetta’s Waltz each and every time he had writer’s block or stage fright. And Mark, with his camera and his glasses and his short strawberry blonde hair and his lanky, too-long arms. With his want to have a voice and his need to document the world, his need to make a mark. His tendency to film everything.

 

After high school it seemed only natural they move to New York. The land of opportunities. Roger formed a band and Mark hit the streets night after night, day after day, looking for footage of the grungy Bohemian life. He filmed Roger a lot. Zoomed in on his friend’s fingers as he strummed his guitar, focused on his eyes when he was performing or writing, how alive they’d get. How bright he seemed.

 

The downward spiral started with a needle.

 

April was a bad influence on Roger and Mark could see it, but he didn’t say anything because Roger was happy for once in his life, and Mark liked when Roger was happy. Everything just seemed… better. So Mark stayed happy and cheery and he went along with his friends; Collins and April and Roger and Benny and everything was alright.

 

And then Mark found out about the drugs.

 

He wished Roger would stop, wished and wished and wished but no matter how many stars he wished upon or how many gods he prayed to, his friend was too deep in now. It made Mark cry to see what those damn drugs were doing to Roger. He’d get on some cloud and then he’d come down and he’d need another hit or the withdrawals started. He’d shake and sweat and cry out in pain.

 

But that was never as bad as when they found out about Roger’s HIV.

 

When April died Mark put his foot down. He started making sure Roger was keeping up with his meds. He monitored his friend, held him through the withdrawals. The yelling and the anger and the hitting was first. Mark was there as Roger’s punching bag, and in some sick way, Mark was okay with that. He cried from the pain and his ribs always ached the next morning, but he told himself that it would be okay because soon Roger would be clean. He’d be better. He’d be Roger again.

 

Next was the sweating. The shaking. The bags underneath Roger’s eyes. But nothing was worse than when Roger would beg. Mark would have to bite back tears as he watched Roger on the couch, groaning with pain, crying freely, begging for just one hit. Just one hit to make the pain go away. To make the shaking stop. To make everything okay again.

 

And one morning Mark found Roger slumped limply like a rag doll on the kitchen floor, back against the wall, shivering and sweating all at the same time. Crying, hair a mess, unshaved. Clothes disheveled. Piercing eyes now dull and lifeless.

 

Mark slid down next to his best friend, his roommate, and in a way, his soulmate. He drew Roger into his arms and rubbed circles on the man’s back, whispering that everything was going to be okay. Everything would be fine.

 

“Please… Mark… I need… I need a hit. Just one. Please…” Roger whimpered. He sounded pitiful and it broke Mark’s heart. Roger was supposed to be the gruff one. The one hardened by life. The one protecting his dorky little best friend. He was supposed to be strong. It wasn’t supposed to be Mark, clean and HIV negative, holding Roger, shaking and HIV positive, on a Sunday morning leaned up against the wall with pre-dawn light filtering through their kitchen windows.

 

“It’ll be fine,” Mark mumbled, and even to him his voice sounded strained. But he kept his arms around Roger and he kept himself resolute. The withdrawals had been happening for a while now, they would be over soon. They had to be over soon.

 

In that Sunday pre-dawn light, something happened between the friends.

 

And though they wouldn’t realize it until years later, - after Angel and after Mimi had gone, but before the AIDS took Roger, too - as they sat on their kitchen floor crying and holding each other, their friendship turned into a whole lot more. As Mark held Roger and whispered that everything would be okay, and as Roger shook and cried into Mark’s chest and clutched at Mark’s loose-fitting pajama shirt, the universe decided.

  
Mark loved Roger. And Roger loved Mark.


End file.
